And the raised voice was his official voice, so different that all the heads at the bridge table turned to him, and Anne Meredith’s hand remained poised over an ace of spades in dummy.
“I’m sorry to tell you all,” he said, “that our host, Mr. Shaitana, is dead.”
Mrs. Lorrimer and Dr. Roberts rose to their feet. Despard stared and frowned. Anne Meredith gave a little gasp.
“Are you sure, man?”
Dr. Roberts, his professional instincts aroused, came briskly across the floor with a bounding medical “in-at-the-death” step.
Without seeming to, the bulk of Superintendent Battle impeded his progress.
“Just a minute, Dr. Roberts. Can you tell me first who’s been in and out of this r
oom this evening?”
Roberts stared at him.
“In and out? I don’t understand you. Nobody has.”
The superintendent transferred his gaze.
“Is that right, Mrs. Lorrimer?”
“Quite right.”
“Not the butler nor any of the servants?”
“No. The butler brought in that tray as we sat down to bridge. He has not been in since.”
Superintendent Battle looked at Despard.
Despard nodded in agreement.
Anne said rather breathlessly, “Yes—yes, that’s right.”
“What’s all this, man,” said Roberts impatiently. “Just let me examine him; maybe just a fainting fit.”
“It isn’t a fainting fit, and I’m sorry—but nobody’s going to touch him until the divisional surgeon comes. Mr. Shaitana’s been murdered, ladies and gentlemen.”
“Murdered?” A horrified incredulous sigh from Anne.
A stare—a very blank stare—from Despard.
A sharp incisive “Murdered?” from Mrs. Lorrimer.
A “Good God!” from Dr. Roberts.
Superintendent Battle nodded his head slowly. He looked rather like a Chinese porcelain mandarin. His expression was quite blank.
“Stabbed,” he said. “That’s the way of it. Stabbed.”
Then he shot out a question:
“Any of you leave the bridge table during the evening?”
He saw four expressions break up—waver. He saw fear—comprehension—indignation—dismay—horror; but he saw nothing definitely helpful.
“Well?”